


Dancing With The Moon

by starsandgraces



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Dance, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dancing With The Stars AU. Stiles Stilinski, former child star, has been strong-armed into participating in a reality show by his agent in an attempt to raise his profile and actually get him some work as an adult. With champion dancer Laura Hale on his arm, Stiles might even stand a chance of going all the way. Their only obstacle (aside from Stiles' complete inability to cha cha cha) is Lydia Martin and <i>her</i> professional partner—Laura's brother, Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canistakahari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/gifts).



> For my dear Helen on the occasion of her birthday! Both of us are more familiar with the UK version of the show, Strictly Come Dancing, so while I've done my best to research the American version (short of watching an entire season or two), please excuse any slip-ups I might have made.

Stiles feels like he's in trouble with the principal, sitting in front of a desk and waiting to be told what he's done wrong this time. Or at least, he assumes that's what this feels like. Most of his education was undertaken by tutors on the sets of films and TV shows. His only exposure to principals has been through the medium of pop culture.

Chris Argent ends his phone call curtly and takes his seat with a heavy sigh. He swivels to face Stiles. "Do you know why I asked you to come in?"

"No-o-o," Stiles says, dragging the syllable out while he tries to think. He's not coming up with anything. He's barely been out for weeks. The last time he walked past some paparazzi, they didn't even take any photos of him. They were more interested in some hairy guy with a couple of cute dogs.

"Stiles, you haven't worked in six years," Chris says. He looks concerned. "I know you're still picking up the odd commercial, but the last time you had the lead role in a movie, you were seventeen. No one really knows who you are any more, beside those outlandish rumours about you and Selena Gomez that were swirling around last year. I'm your agent because you pay me, not because you're my daughter's BFF. If you're not working, neither of us are earning money and there's no point in my keeping you on as a client."

"Scott's my BFF," he says, because he'd rather focus on that than the thought that Chris just fired him as a client.

"Excuse me?"

"Scott's my BFF," Stiles repeats. "Allison's my platonic life partner."

"I don't actually care," Chris says with a roll of his eyes. "My point is, we need to raise your profile if you ever want to work in this town as an actor again. I was contacted recently by the producers of _Dancing With The Stars_. They want you to join the show for the twenty-second season and I told them you'd do it."

"Um, _no_. I can't dance, Chris." He pauses and frowns. "I can't dance like that. Ballroom dancing? I'm going to fall on my face."

"I don't care if you're the best thing since Fred Astaire. It's not about the dancing, Stiles, it's about getting out there and looking like an attractive prospect for casting agents. If people like you—if they vote for you—then they'll buy tickets to see you in a movie. So you're going on the show and you're going to be as entertaining and likeable as is physically possible."

"That's like... really physically possible," Stiles says. "I mean. You've met me. You should know."

Chris rolls his eyes. "And yet," he says. "Try not to get eliminated first. Then there won't have been any point to this whole charade."

***

Laura and Derek Hale are two of the most accomplished ballroom dancers of their age, and indeed their generation. No one comes close to touching them on the dance floor and anybody who's been lucky enough to be partnered with one of them during _Dancing With The Stars_ has never gone out before reaching the final five couples. Most go on to win, though a few haven't.

Chris pulls enough strings behind the scenes to ensure that Stiles is partnered with Laura, which means Derek and _his_ partner are going to be their main rivals. If Stiles has to do this—and there are no signs that he's getting out of it any time soon—he wants to _win_.

Things don't look positive for Stiles when he learns that Derek's partner is Lydia Martin. He knows Lydia all too well; they practically grew up together on various sets. The difference between them is that Lydia transitioned to acting as an adult as if she was made for it, and there's no real reason for her to be on the show at all. There's no way she needs the publicity when she got an Oscar nomination last year.

"I just wanna take some time to have fun, you know?" Lydia tells the cameras with a dazzling smile, her arm around Derek's waist. Her voice has an adorable Texan lilt to it—cultivated by a dialect coach, Stiles has no doubt. Lydia was born and raised in California. "I've been working since I was like, six years old. I can take a few months off to do some dancing with my new best friend."

"Which I'm grateful for," Derek puts in. They smile at each other coyly. "I truly believe Lydia and I can go all the way this season."

Stiles mutes the TV with a particularly violent jab of his thumb. "See? It's just disgusting."

"I don't see why that's disgusting, Stiles," Allison says, confiscating the remote from him before he puts it through the screen. "Lydia's awesome and really nice, you know that. So what if she's playing up to her audience? It's what you're going to need to do. What you totally failed at doing when they tried to interview you about it."

It's true. He's seen the tape of the interview with him and Laura, and he looked like he wanted to die during the whole thing. Stiles actually _flinched_ when Laura put her hand on his shoulder briefly. Mainly because he wasn't expecting it, but still.

"Lydia is the queen of putting on an act," Stiles says. "I've only met Laura twice. We haven't even had a practice together yet."

"Because you cancelled it."

"I _postponed_ it. Dad was sick."

"Your dad has a cold," Allison says. She turns the sound back on and flicks through the channels, looking for something to watch, settling finally on the Food Network. "Even he didn't take time off work. Just you."

"I'm going tomorrow," Stiles says grumpily. "I don't want to talk about this any more. Is that _Sweet Genius_? What's the inspiration?"

"Betta fish," she replies with great satisfaction.

***

Stiles turns up at the dance studio before 5am the next morning, clutching a cup of Starbucks coffee containing more espresso shots than he cares to think about and desperately sipping it. It's his second venti of the day and he's still nowhere near awake enough for this shit.

"Well, at least you're on time," Laura says from the floor. She's stretching, doing the splits and then pressing the length of her body against her leg, first one way and then the other. Her hair's pulled off her face in a messy topknot and she looks far better than anyone has any right to at this hour.

"I really hope you don't expect me to do that," Stiles says.

"Not in the first week. Do you know how to warm up?"

Their first dance is the cha cha cha and Stiles hates it immediately. They run through the choreography slowly, step by step, and Stiles keeps missing his cues. He starts on the first beat or the third and his feet get under Laura's whenever she starts dancing on time. They both fall over more than once. Every time he tries to move his hips the way Laura instructs him, he forgets what he's supposed to be doing with his feet. It's more frustrating and exhausting than Stiles had imagined.

"This is seriously impossible," Stiles announces around midday, collapsing onto the couch in the corner. "Dancing has won. I'm going home as soon as my legs work again."

"Stop being such a baby," Laura says. She runs a towel over her face and sips from a bottle of water. "You think it's difficult now? This is just the beginning."

"I didn't even want to begin."

"Listen," she says, sitting down next to him. "We'll take a break, get some lunch, and then start fresh in the afternoon. This is your first try. Trust me, you're not even close to the worst I've seen."

"I find that really difficult to believe," Stiles says.

There's a diner down the street from the studio and it's clear they know Laura very well. A waitress greets her with a bright smile and leads them directly to a booth in the corner. "I'll put in the order for your usual, Laura," she says, handing Stiles a menu. "And can I get you a drink while you look over the menu?"

"Just a coke, please," Stiles says. He flips through the menu and wonders if they'll still make French toast for him if he asks really nicely.

"You can eat whatever you want today, but I'm working with a dietician to put together a diet plan for you for the duration of the competition," Laura tells him.

"Excuse me?"

"This is going to be _hard_ , Stiles," she says. "You'll be burning more calories than you usually do and you can't afford to replace them with junk. You'll get tired more easily if you do."

The waitress comes back over and puts their drinks down on the table. "Are you ready to order?" she asks Stiles.

"I'd like a bacon cheeseburger with extra bacon and curly fries on the side," Stiles says promptly, mustering his most charming smile. "And can I have a chocolate milkshake as well, please?" He hands the menu back.

"Really?" Laura says with a roll of her eyes. "That's not childish at all."

"I should have guessed you'd be here. Do you mind if we join you?" Derek Hale asks, materialising behind Laura. He and Lydia don't wait for an answer before they slide into the booth.

"It's so good to see you again, Stiles," Lydia enthuses. "It's been years since we last got to hang out properly." She's dressed similarly to Laura, with her hair pulled back into a bun and attractive strawberry-blonde curls framing her face, and either no makeup or the kind of makeup that makes it look like she isn't wearing any. "Aren't you just having so much fun?"

"No," says Stiles.

Lydia and Laura both laugh while Derek just stares at him unnervingly. He has artful designer stubble and is wearing a deep v-neck tee that exposes most of his muscular chest, which _has_ to be waxed. Stiles feels threatened on a cellular level.

"I was actually hoping to talk to you," Laura says. "Stiles is having trouble getting a handle on the cha cha cha right now, so if you have ten minutes free, it'd be great if you could come down to our studio and we can show him how it's done."

"Look, I'm pretty sure I can figure it out by myself," Stiles says quickly. "It's just teething problems. You probably have your own things to work on."

"Oh, please do," Lydia says. "I grew up watching you dancing together. And it'd be so great if you'd dance the rumba for me while we're helping each other. I can't get the intensity right and watching videos on Youtube isn't the same as seeing it in person." She reaches across the table and clasps Laura's hands between her own. "I'd just love it," she says sincerely.

Laura smiles at her. "Well, if Derek helps us with our dance, I don't see why I can't help you with yours."

"I don't think I can argue with that," Derek says finally. "More specifically, I don't think I'm allowed to argue with that. What exactly is the problem with the cha cha cha?"

"Everything," Stiles grumbles. Laura kicks him under the table. "Ow! Jesus. My hips, I guess. And my feet."

"His footwork?" Derek asks Laura.

"No, his actual feet," she replies, deadpan.

Their meals arrive—Derek and Lydia must have ordered at the counter—and Stiles busies himself with his extra-bacon cheeseburger so he doesn't have to talk to anyone. He's aware he's being petty but his muscles are starting to ache from the exertion, and he thinks he can feel the start of a headache.

Not for the first time, Stiles wonders why he agreed to do this.

***

In the end, Laura and Derek don't dance together for them that afternoon. Someone working on the show gets wind of it and decides they want footage for their training montages, so it's almost a week before Stiles and Lydia get to watch their partners show them how it's done. Stiles is starting to get the hang of moving his feet and his hips at the same time, but it quickly becomes apparent that he isn't a patch on Derek.

It's easy to see why Laura and Derek have the reputation they do. To Stiles, their dance looks effortless, even as they both direct a steady stream of advice towards him.

"Look at Derek's butt, Stiles," Laura barks across the studio, doing something complicated with her arms. "Look at the way he's working his hips."

Stiles does not want to look at Derek's butt. He would rather be anywhere else and doing anything else than sitting here with Lydia and several cameras recording his reaction to being ordered to look at another guy's butt. It doesn't help that it's probably the best ass Stiles has ever seen on a person, man or woman. He doesn't need his slack-jawed amazement broadcast on national TV.

"You're not looking," Lydia says.

"I'm not looking because—oh my god," Stiles cuts himself off because he turned his head slightly and got an eyeful of Derek's cock swinging around in his sweatpants. "Derek's not wearing underwear," he hisses to Lydia, thanking every deity that may or may not exist there isn't a boom mic in his vicinity.

She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "You're meant to be looking at his butt," she hisses back, lips barely moving.

"It's hard to miss." Stiles grits his teeth and crosses his legs.

"Sure is," Lydia croons happily. "By the way, he's wearing underwear. It's just _that_ big."

 _She's messing with me_ , he thinks. _She has to be_.

"You both need to pay attention," Derek calls and Stiles hopes his hearing has been ruined by years of loud music. "Lydia, this'll be us in a few weeks. Look at the way Laura's finishing off her hand movements; you need to be able to do that."

Lydia sits up straighter on the couch.

Stiles really didn't think the day could get any worse than having Derek "Perfect Ass" Hale parading around in front of him, demonstrating exactly how bad Stiles is at the cha cha cha, but then somehow it does when Laura and Derek show them the rumba.

It's sexy. It'd be uncomfortably sexy if anyone else was doing it, but between two people who are actually _related_? Stiles doesn't know what to think. He definitely doesn't know how they're doing it with a complete lack of embarrassment. They go through the whole dance looking as if they're on the verge of making out, then when it ends both of them act like it was nothing. To them, it probably is. Stiles heard or read somewhere that the Hales have been dancing together since they were eight and ten.

"Job well done, little brother," Laura says, kissing him on the cheek.

"We're never going to be that good," Stiles says despondently.

"Speak for yourself," Lydia replies. She loops her arm through Derek's. "I'm feeling so much more confident now," she says to him. "I think we should go back to the studio and get to work."

"Oh, me too," Stiles says, pasting a grin across his face. "We're gonna kick your asses."

As soon as Derek and Lydia have left, he collapses face down on the coach. "We're dead," he moans into a cushion. "We're so dead."

"You might be dead but I'll drag your corpse through as many rounds as I can manage," Laura says.

"Harsh," Stiles says. "But fair."

They don't really train tirelessly in the weeks leading up to the first show of the season, which is mainly Stiles' fault. He turns up to almost every training session and hardly ever cheats on his diet. Laura slowly manages to whip him into shape—or something that resembles it enough to get them through, with any luck. She seems optimistic, but Stiles is pretty sure Laura's confidence is all an act. He knows he's all kinds of terrible at the dance, and about the only thing he _has_ been able to do right is memorise the choreography, even if he can't quite execute it to Laura's standards.

They work a little on the jive, their dance for week two, but in the end Laura decides they should concentrate everything on the cha cha cha.

"I don't know why this one dance is so hard for you, Stiles," she says one particularly frustrating afternoon. "You can do the jive, more or less, so clearly it's not a problem with the Latin dances."

Stiles crouches in the corner with his head in his hands. "Maybe I'm going to suck at all the rest of them _apart_ from the jive," he says. "Can I quit, please?"

"No one's quitting anything. We dance in four days." She touches his shoulder. "Break's over. We've still got a lot of work to do."

***

Scott, Allison and his dad are all sitting in the audience for the first live show, which is the kind of pressure Stiles could really do without.

"Are you kidding me?" his dad said the night before when Stiles called him. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

He hasn't been able to see them in the audience—there are so many people that all the faces are blurring into one anonymous, amorphous blob—but that's probably for the best. Just knowing they're out there watching him is difficult enough for Stiles.

"I thought you'd done stage stuff before," Laura says from outside the men's bathroom where Stiles has his head down a toilet.

"It's not the _same_ ," he says. "I know how to act. I don't know how to dance. They're all going to laugh at me." He decides that he probably isn't going to throw up after all and gets up, walking out of the bathroom. "You've tried really hard and I'm going to let you down."

"You'll only let me down if you don't go out onto that dance floor and give it everything you've got," she says.

He swallows hard and nods. "Laura, if I fuck this up—"

"You won't," Laura says. "Are you ready?"

"No."

"Get ready." And that's the end of that.

But the best thing Stiles can say about their cha cha cha, once it's all over, is that neither one of them fell down or had a wardrobe malfunction. No amount of rehearsal prepared him for how it actually feels to dance in front of a crowd.

"Your hips, Stiles, your hips!" Bruno says. "Where was the _passion_?"

"It was not in my hips," he says, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Maybe the cha cha cha isn't your thing," Carrie Ann says, "but I think you definitely have potential and I hope with Laura's guidance we'll see some more of it."

The judges give them sixteen points, two fives and a six, putting them firmly at the bottom of the scoreboard for the first week. Stiles actually thinks they were more than generous but Laura is furious.

"They undermarked us," she says when the show's over and no one's filming them any more. "It's ridiculous. That was the best I've ever seen you dance it and we deserved at least twenty. At _least_."

"Are you mad because this is the lowest score you've ever got?" Stiles asks.

Laura glares at him. "Partially," she says after a moment. "But you were better than a sixteen and you know I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it. We're in danger now, Stiles, if people don't like you and you don't dance better next week."

"People like me."

"Well, we'll find out next week."

At that point, Allison, Scott and Stiles' dad turn up to speak to them, and his dad and Laura immediately bond over the criminally low score they received.

"Seriously, I'm pretty sure I deserved it," he says.

"No way, man, are you kidding?" Scott says. "You were amazing." Allison elbows him in the side. "You shouldn't have gotten the lowest score, anyway."

"And it's still only the first week," Allison says encouragingly. "You're going to get so much better."

Laura makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.

"I'm proud of you anyway, son," his dad says. He ruffles Stiles' hair, knocking it out of the gelled quiff the hair and makeup people put it in for the show.

"Thanks, Dad," he mumbles, reaching up to adjust his hair. "Please never come and watch me dancing again."

"What are you talking about? I'll be here every week. Allison and Scott agree with me." All three of them nod.

"I actually think that's a great idea," Laura says.

Stiles turns to her with betrayal in his eyes. "Et tu, Brute?"

"If you can dance in front of your dad, you can dance in front of anyone," she says, looping her arm through his elbow. "It's one of the first things I learned when I started dancing."

"You're all the worst."

***

Stiles wishes that training was as quick and easy as the montages the show airs imply. He puts in the time Laura asks him to, he eats what Laura's dietician friend tells him to eat—properly this time, not just when he feels like it—and he sleeps like a log for eight hours every night before doing it all over again the next day.

"Your life no longer contains weekends," Laura tells him. Stiles repeats it to Scott, who laughs in his face. Scott is the worst BFF _ever_.

The week's over before Stiles knows it and he has to dance again. With their first score so low, the stakes feel a hundred times higher than they did the week before, even though Stiles is more confident about the jive than he ever was about the cha cha cha.

"What do you have to remember?" Laura asks just before they dance.

"Fast feet, finish with my fingers," Stiles says. "And don't get dizzy and fall over when I have to spin."

Stiles gives it his all. He doesn't fall over—nor does he drop Laura during any of the dips—he only slips out of time with the music once, and he flirts shamelessly with all three judges under the guise of being in character for the dance. At the very least, he hopes they'll get points for being entertaining.

And whether it was the dancing or the flirting, the judges give them twenty-two points. Stiles whoops with delight but Laura is more reserved with her celebration.

"We still don't know if it'll be enough," she reminds him. "We're at the bottom of the scoreboard."

"It's got to be enough," he says. "People love me. And failing that, people love _you_. You're a champion."

One by one, the other couples are declared safe. Lydia and Derek are the first, of course, because they nailed both their dances and they look amazing together. He thought his chemistry with Laura was good, but Lydia and Derek dance like they're having a passionate love affair. Maybe they are. No wonder people voted for them.

Stiles' heart sinks when he and Laura are told they're in the bottom two and at risk of being eliminated. He wraps one arm around her shoulders and holds her hand with the other, probably tighter than she finds comfortable, and they wait for the worst to happen.

"Matt and Anna, the judges loved your rumba but weren't quite so thrilled with your waltz, leaving you tied at the bottom of the scoreboard. Stiles and Laura, your cha cha cha last week failed to impress, but will the improvement you showed this week when performing the jive be enough for our viewers to save you? Let's find out. The couple who'll be leaving the competition tonight is..."

Stiles sucks in a deep breath. Much to his surprise, he realises that he _really_ wants to be here next week.

"...Matt and Anna. We're so sorry to lose you guys!"

"Holy shit," Stiles says into Laura's ear, hoping neither of their mics pick it up.

"We pulled it off. Holy shit," she echoes faintly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now you all know why I don't habitually post WIPs. Thank you to everyone for their patience, but most especially to Helen, who has been the best about waiting for the second part of her birthday fic. Well, now it's a happy new year fic as well! Bonus thanks to Vicky and Kat for alpha-reading (heh) to calm my nerves.

Somehow, they continue to pull it off and no one is more surprised by that than Stiles, with the possible exception of Laura. At least she doesn't try to claim that she had faith in him all along when they both know she really didn't.

They don't get good fast, because life isn't a movie. Which sucks, as far as Stiles is concerned. The amount of work he's been putting in feels disproportionate to the results they're getting, though Laura assures him multiple times that he's improving. While Lydia and Derek are usually at the top of the scoreboard, Stiles and Laura settle around the middle most weeks, right up until week seven. That's when one of their two dances is the lindy hop.

Right from their first practice, Stiles feels good about the lindy hop. They spend an hour watching videos on Youtube while Laura points out the kind of moves they're going to have to pull off to impress the judges at this stage of the competition.

"You think you can spin me around like that?" she asks.

" _Without_ dropping you?"

Laura shoves him, laughing. "We'll work on it. I know you've got the strength from some of the other lifts we've done."

"What about that? Can we do that?" Stiles asks, pointing at the laptop screen.

"That's called a tummy tuck turn. It's pretty advanced," Laura says, chewing her lower lip. "I can definitely work it into the choreography but that doesn't mean you'll be able to do it with only a week to rehearse. Learn what I've planned first and then we can try it. If it works, we leave it in. If it doesn't, we go back to the original moves and concentrate on getting those down perfectly."

"We've got to try it. Go big or go home, right?"

"If you mess it up, we're definitely going home." She wraps her arms around him. "Believe it or not, I'll actually miss you if we do, even though you're a pain in my butt."

"I love you too, man," Stiles says, planting a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

"Ugh, okay, no more emotions," she says, pushing him away. "Only dancing."

"I am a dance machine," he says in a monotone voice, getting up and doing the robot across the studio.

" _Ugh_ ," says Laura.

Stiles drops Laura a lot in the first few days, before they figure out all the lifts and turns. The tummy tuck is the worst, just like she predicted. He has all kinds of trouble holding onto her when she spins out and in the end they decide to just put the tummy tuck at the end of the routine. That way, when Laura goes skidding across the floor, it makes a pretty good finish instead of fucking up the rest of the dance.

"Tell me if I'm wrong, but I think this is our best dance yet," Stiles says.

"I don't want to give you an even bigger head." Laura glances up at the clock on the wall. "Okay. Start your warm down now; we need to get to our costume fitting."

"Again?"

"Your body is changing, Stiles," she says in the kind of voice you'd use to explain puberty to a pre-teen. "They can't just make everything to your measurements the way they do for a movie, because they're different every week."

"Well, it sucks."

Whoever scheduled the fittings today didn't do a very good job of it. When they arrive, they're told that a previous fitting ran over and everything's been delayed.

"We'll be ready for Laura in about ten minutes. Stiles, you might have to wait a half hour," the receptionist tells them. "Please take a seat and someone will be out for you as soon as possible."

Stiles flops down in a seat unceremoniously while Laura picks up a copy of _Vogue_ and joins him. She does it with a lot more grace. "You might want to grab something to read," she says.

"I'm fine," he replies, digging his phone out of his pocket and waving it at Laura. "My high score on Fruit Ninja is fucking shameful. I need to work on that."

"...sure," Laura says with a shake of her head.

About ten minutes later, as predicted, someone calls her name and she gets up, leaving him to his phone. Stiles puts his feet on the table in front of him and stretches out, intending to make the most of a stretch of time where no one expects him to throw a woman through the air without hurting her.

"Lydia's going to be in there a while longer," Derek says, sitting down next to him. "Do you mind if I wait with you?"

"Huh?" Stiles asks intelligently. He pulls a face when he accidentally slashes a bomb because of the distraction and his phone vibrates violently. "Aw, man, I was about to beat my high score."

"Sorry." He doesn't sound sorry.

"Apology accepted." Stiles tucks his phone away and immediately regrets it, because now he has to talk to Derek. "What are you doing here? I mean, if you're done, why aren't you just... leaving?"

"Lydia and I are going out tonight."

Stiles can't help but look him up and down. "You're wearing sweatpants." _And one of those clingy v-neck tees that are all, "I'm Derek! Look at my nipples!",_ he doesn't add as he tries to avoid doing exactly that.

"We're going to change, obviously," Derek says. His lips press into a flat sort of smirk. "I'd invite you and Laura, but you probably need to work on your dance some more while you still have a chance."

"Dude, are you trying to psych me out?" he says, a little incredulously. "It's not going to work because our lindy hop is _awesome_. We're going to crush you." When he says it, Stiles knows it's true. If they can beat Lydia and Derek at all, it's going to be with this dance, and by the sound of things they won't even see it coming. "But hey, enjoy your night out."

"We will," he says, and picks up the _Vogue_ that Laura discarded. He seems amused by Stiles' declaration. "We always do."

Stiles and Laura don't really see each other outside of rehearsals and fittings, and of course the show itself. The fact that Derek and Lydia _do_ seems meaningful in a way that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. He grabs the nearest magazine and pretends to scour the pages so he doesn't have to think about it.

***

They get full marks on the lindy hop, topping the scoreboard. Even Lydia and Derek only get twenty-nine points from their Charleston, ending up in a sorry (for them) third place after they don't get any bonus points from the team dance.

Derek stares at him with so much intensity when the judges reveal their scores that Stiles wonders if he's trying to set him on fire with his mind.

"Should have worked on your dance some more," Stiles murmurs when the cameras aren't on them.

The expression on Derek's face is difficult to describe. He almost looks _pleased_.

***

Grocery shopping is probably one of Stiles' least favourite things in the world to do, and unfortunately for him, he has to do it even more now he's on Laura's special dancing diet. She makes him buy things that are _perishable_ instead of lasting forever in a tin or a sealed plastic bag. Stiles can't even remember what processed meat tastes like. He never thought he'd miss meatloaf.

Most nights after practice, Stiles finds himself in the store, staring at a wall of fruit and vegetables. He's examining something that looks like excessively fancy grass instead of an actual foodstuff when his phone rings. It's Chris. "Hello?"

"Stiles, I've got you a script," he says without any preamble. "Allison's going to bring it over to your apartment tonight."

"You're kidding," Stiles says, tossing a few red bell peppers into his basket.

"It's an indie sci-fi fairytale kind of thing," Chris says. "Not exactly as high-profile as I'd like for you, but sometimes critical acclaim from the festivals is more important to someone in your position than a summer blockbuster. The script's solid and they want to shoot it as soon as you're finished on _Dancing With The Stars_ , preferably over a couple of weeks. A month at the most. It shouldn't get in the way if you _do_ get offered something more lucrative."

"They don't want me to audition?" he asks.

"They want you to come in for a meeting on Saturday morning, but as I understand it, it's a formality. The job's yours to turn down. Not," he adds sternly, "that you're going to turn it down."

"I won't turn it down. Will you tell me anything about the movie before I sign the contract? Other than 'sci-fi fairytale kind of thing', which doesn't actually say a hell of a lot."

There's a pause on the other end of the line and Stiles can hear papers rustling. "They pitched it as Sleeping Beauty in space. Cryogenic freezing instead of a curse; that sort of thing."

"I feel like you're about to tell me I'm the princess," Stiles says, turning away from the display and heading for the freezer aisle. Tonight he dines on ice cream, Laura be damned.

"Don't be ridiculous, Stiles. You're not pretty enough to be the princess."

"I am totally pretty enough to be—oh my god, I'm sorry," he says, cutting himself off when he walks directly into someone else, knocking their groceries all over the floor. "Chris, I have to go, I'll call you later." He doesn't wait for a goodbye before he hangs up the phone. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Slightly amazed you haven't killed yourself or my sister yet," Derek Hale replies dryly. He kneels down to start gathering the food that Stiles knocked out of his basket. "What are you pretty enough to be?"

It's the first time he's seen Derek out of his dancing clothes and he looks far better than seems fair. And he's always looked amazing before, when he wasn't trying. His jeans are slung low on his hips and he's wearing those thick black glasses that people who think they're cool wear. Stiles realises he's gaping. "A princess," he says, a little reluctantly. It sounds stupid _now_. "I didn't know you lived around here."

"I don't; I'm just picking up some stuff for Lydia on my way to her place."

"Oh, you're going to Lydia's place. That's nice."

Derek looks at him oddly. "Yes, I expect so." He finishes picking up his groceries and climbs gracefully to his feet again. "I have to get going. See you around, Stiles. Try not to knock anyone else over."

"I didn't—okay, bye!" he says with false cheeriness.

When Stiles goes to pay, there's a magazine right at the front of the rack with a picture of Lydia and Derek emblazoned across the front. They're walking along the street outside the front of the dance studio where they all practise, laughing and holding hands. The headline splashed across them says, "Lydia Martin and Derek Hale: more than just dance partners? Read all the juicy details inside!"

Stiles isn't sure he wants to read all the juicy details, but something makes him toss a copy onto the belt with the rest of his things.

"Hey, aren't you Stiles Stilinski?" the cashier asks. "My mom loves you on _Dancing With The Stars_. She votes for you every week, even the first week when you sucked."

"Thanks," Stiles says, even though he's pretty sure that wasn't a compliment.

"Why are you buying this?" she says, waving the magazine. "You know Lydia and Derek, right? You must know all the details already."

"Laura likes having a copy of all the press about their family. I'm buying it for her," he lies. It sounds kind of plausible, actually. "Can you just ring me up, please? I kind of have to get going."

"Oh, sure, sorry." She doesn't sound sorry, but she starts scanning his items. "Hey, will you sign something for my mom?"

There's a small piece in the magazine about Stiles and Laura, so he tears it out and signs it for the cashier's mother. She either doesn't notice or doesn't care that it contradicts his lie about Laura collecting all the stories about them. Then, finally, he pays and gets to go home and think—and not jerk off, because he has to have _some_ dignity—about his raging crush on Derek Hale, who is quite probably fucking Lydia.

This is not what he wanted.

***

Laura snaps her fingers in front of Stiles' face. "Hey," she says. "Earth to Stilinski. We're still in a dance competition, you know. You can't dance if you're sitting on your ass."

"I'm doing it right now," Stiles says on autopilot. He blinks up at her. "What did you say?"

"For fuck's sake," Laura says crisply, enunciating each word. There aren't any cameras in the studio filming them, obviously. "We're not going to get anything done today, are we?"

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head. "Give me a minute to get my shit together."

"The way I see it, you have two choices here. Either you sit on the floor and don't do anything, and we get kicked off the show this week because you don't know how to do the quickstep, or you talk to me about whatever's eating you and we figure something out." She sits down next to Stiles and drapes an arm across his shoulders. "The talking option comes with smoothies."

"How about actual solid food? Say, with sugar in it?"

"Don't push your luck."

They go to the diner. They're seated in the same booth as the first time they came here and Laura pretends not to notice when Stiles orders a milkshake instead of a smoothie.

"Okay," she says when the waitress brings their drinks. "Will you tell me what's wrong?"

"I don't think we've got enough chemistry," Stiles says, everything bubbling out of his mouth at once. "We don't really hang out together when we're not doing dancing stuff, you know? I think maybe that's why we're not getting the same kind of scores as Lydia and Derek. All people talk about is their _chemistry_ and how great they are together and how they're probably screwing." He didn't mean to say that last part.

"Seriously?" Laura asks, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I would have thought an actor would know better than to read those trashy gossip magazines."

"Why do you think I—Allison buys them and then leaves them lying around. It's not my fault I like something to read when I'm in the bathroom," Stiles says, defensive. He really needs to stop lying about magazines. It's becoming a habit.

"You're a terrible liar," she says. "Stiles, none of that matters. We're getting great scores and we have plenty of chemistry right now. Derek and Lydia just clicked sooner than we did, that's all, and you've been in the industry long enough to know that implying two people are _together_ earns more money than the truth."

"Yeah, I guess," he mumbles. He stirs his milkshake with the straw, stabbing at the bottom of the glass to try and break up the scoop of ice cream down there.

"And for the record," Laura says, "I can pretty much guarantee they're not sleeping together. Which, thanks for making me think about my baby brother like that, by the way."

"I know you're close but that doesn't mean he tells you _everything_."

"Stiles, he's pretty much exclusively been with guys since he was sixteen. He's really, really gay."

"Oh," says Stiles, cogs whirring in his brain. For some reason, he hadn't expected that, which was stupid of him now he thinks about it. He works in a business where people fake interest in other people for a living, and it never occurred to him that Derek and Lydia might have been doing the same thing. "Really?"

"Really," she replies gravely. "And one more thing, Stiles: if you're going to make a move on him, _please_ wait until after the show's over. I need your head in the game, not in the clouds."

"Are you... giving me permission to make a move on him?" he asks cautiously.

Laura rolls her eyes at him. "No. I'm saying if you really have to do it, at least time it so you don't fuck up our chance at the trophy. If he turns you down and breaks your heart, you'll dance like shit."

***

Stiles flops down on Scott and Allison's bed, lying in between them. "Emergency roommate meeting," he announces. "I need relationship advice."

"You're a shitty roommate," Scott says, pulling his pillow over his head and muffling the next sentence. "You don't get advice until you learn how to _knock_."

He immediately reaches up and raps his knuckles on the headboard, then repeats, "Emergency roommate meeting."

"Asshole," Scott says in a tone of voice that Stiles chooses to identify as "fond".

"What's wrong?" Allison asks. Her eyes are still closed.

"I think I have a crush on Derek Hale. Okay, I _know_ I have a crush on Derek Hale, and Laura says he's gay." Stiles stares at the ceiling. "Should I ask him if he wants to get a drink with me? What if he laughs in my face? What if he just looks at me with his eyes in disgust and/or horror?"

"Well, he probably won't look at you with anything other than his eyes," Allison says sensibly. She stifles a yawn against the back of her hand and sits up in bed, tucking her hair behind her ears. "What do you want us to say? Of course you should ask him out. Hasn't he already laughed in your face about your dancing?"

"No, he... okay, yeah, he did that one time."

"There you go," she says. "That wasn't the end of the world."

"It's different and you know it," Stiles grumbles.

" _Dude_ ," Scott says suddenly, whacking him with his pillow. "Just _ask_ him. It's not like you ever have to see him again if he says no. You're acting like an idiot."

Stiles grabs Allison's pillow and hits back at Scott. "I'm not an idiot, _idiot_."

"You're both idiots." Allison takes her pillow back from Stiles, then tugs Scott's out of his hands as well. "Stiles, go and hit on Derek. Leave us alone, it's not even eight yet." She puts both pillows on her side of the bed and lies back down on them.

"I thought it was later," Stiles says. He really did, and now he feels kind of bad. "Sorry. You really think I should ask him?"

" _Yes_ ," they say in unison.

"But what if—"

This time, Allison's the one who hits him with the pillow.

***

When Stiles begrudgingly agreed to do _Dancing With The Stars_ , he never really thought he'd make it to the final, as much as he wanted to win. Even with Laura as his partner it seemed like too much to hope for, especially after they were nearly eliminated in the second week.

They're dancing last of the three finalists, which will either work out great or terribly for them, depending on how the others do. Stiles gets the feeling that Laura would be happier if they didn't have to watch the other couples dance, but that's not how this works. They laugh and joke through a chat with Brooke, but he can tell Laura's nervous.

"You've won this three times already," he says quietly when there aren't any cameras on them. "I'm the one who should be panicking, I can't dance."

"Believe it or not, you wouldn't have gotten this far if you couldn't dance, Stiles," Laura says. "And I'm not panicking, I'm just... psyching myself up." She sucks in a deep breath, holds it, then exhales.

Stiles takes her hand. "We've got—"

"Sorry to interrupt but we need you backstage now," a member of the crew says, holding out his hand to guide them.

They follow him, though by this point Stiles thinks he could find his way blindfolded. They get there so fast that they still have a little time to kill before their first dance tonight.

"You really pulled your shit together," Laura says while they wait for their cue. "I didn't think we'd get this far."

"No one saw that coming," he says, wrapping his arms around Laura. They hug for what feels like a very a long time, though it must have been less than a minute.

Eventually, Laura pulls away, smoothing down her costume and checking her hair's still in place. "Are you ready?" she asks, the way she did back before their first dance.

"No," he says, and they both laugh.

"You'd better get ready, then." And the announcer calls their names, and their final begins.

***

They dance the best they've ever danced, Stiles thinks. Over the two nights, they dance their way into the final two couples—with Lydia and Derek, of course. It was never going to be anyone else standing there, waiting to see who'll be crowned champion this season.

"The winners of this season's _Dancing With The Stars_ are..."

The moment feels endless. Laura's nails are digging painfully into his skin because they're holding hands so tightly, but Stiles doesn't care. "Whatever happens," he murmurs. "Whatever happens, you've been the best partner I could have asked for."

"You haven't," she whispers back, "but I still wouldn't have changed you for anyone." They smile at each other and wait to see if they've done enough.

"...Lydia and Derek!"

Lydia squeals so loudly Stiles thinks his eardrums are going to pop, and she jumps into Derek's arms, wrapping her legs around his waist like he's a tree. The ballroom bursts into wild cheering and applause. There's a noise a little like a sob, and after a fraction of a second, Stiles realises he's the one who made it.

Laura hugs him, pressing her cheek to his and murmuring, "It's fine, Stiles, we did everything we could. Second place isn't the worst thing that could have happened." But when she steps back so they can go to congratulate Lydia and Derek, her eyes are damp with unshed tears and Stiles feels like he's let her down.

He hugs Lydia, who's grinning so wide it looks like her face might split in two. "You deserved it," he tells her, and means it.

"We did," Lydia says. "But after all the work you put in, I think you did too."

Stiles turns to shake Derek's hand but before he can repeat his praise, Derek says, "Well done, Stiles. If it had just come down to our favourite dances, you should have won." He pats Stiles' shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment against the bare skin of his upper arm.

"That... I think I'm supposed to be congratulating you, not the other way around. Good job, by the way."

Over Derek's shoulder, Stiles can see Allison mouthing something at him. It's either "congrats" or "wreck that"; he can't really tell.

Derek smiles at him. He looks so much younger, so much _softer_ when he smiles. Stiles wants to lick him. Or something else that's a more normal, socially acceptable way of showing attraction.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. _It's all over tomorrow. Then you can find out how hard he's going to shut you down_.

Stiles' dad takes them all—Stiles, Scott, Allison and Laura—out for dinner to celebrate. Laura and Stiles are both a little subdued at first, for obvious reasons. After a little while and a lot of beer, they both relax and start having some fun. The four of them end up at a club after Stiles' dad bows out.

"I'm gonna do it," Stiles half-shouts into Laura's ear on the dancefloor. She's great at _this_ kind of dancing as well. He's not surprised.

"What?"

"I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna ask Derek out."

"That's great," she shouts back. "I don't want to know _anything_."

"Fair enough!"

Then Allison grabs Stiles' arm, begging him to show her his moves. He's more than happy to oblige. The rest of the night passes in a haze of dancing and laughter. Despite coming second, or maybe even because of it, Stiles doesn't think he's ever felt better.

***

Stiles wakes up the next morning with less of a hangover than he has any right to, considering the night he had, though when he checks the time he discovers it's actually the afternoon. He does, however, wake up in Scott and Allison's bed with no recollection of going to sleep there, or indeed coming home at all.

A brief exploration reveals Allison asleep on the floor next to the bed, in a nest of cushions from the couch. Scott turns up in the bath. There's no sign of Laura anywhere in the apartment, but Stiles finds an extremely well-spelled text on his phone instructing him to drink plenty of water, so he isn't too worried about her.

He steals some of Allison's Advil from the bathroom cabinet for his headache, which is mild, and shakes Scott awake. "I need the shower," Stiles says. "You know what today is."

"Go away," Scott groans, curling his arms around his head.

"I am _not_ ," Stiles says, hooking his arms under Scott's armpits, "taking a whore's bath in the sink because you're too hungover to move. Why are you even in there?" He drags him out of the bathroom unceremoniously while Scott makes pained noises and flails ineffectively. "I'm sorry."

"You've never been less sorry in your whole life," Scott says, glaring at him balefully from the floor.

"True." He takes his shower quickly, scrubbing shampoo through his hair before he realises he picked up Allison's by mistake. Luckily it's not a particularly flowery smelling one, so he doesn't bother trying to replace it with something more manly, like mint or guns.

By the time he's dry, dressed, and shaved, Allison's slumped over the kitchen table while Scott jabs with increasing desperation at the coffee maker.

"I'm going out," Stiles says. "I'm going to ask Derek for coffee and sex."

"No shouting," says Allison, covering her ears. "How are you even standing up right now? You drank more than anyone."

"I guess it's Laura's diet. I feel fine," he says with a shrug.

They both groan unhappily at him until he leaves.

The only problem, once Stiles is out of the apartment, is that he doesn't actually know where to find Derek. He figures his best bet is probably the studio, with the diner as his next port of call if Derek isn't there. After that, he'll have to try asking Laura—and maybe even Lydia, which doesn't really appeal to him.

The studio Derek used to train with Lydia is one floor above the one Stiles and Laura rehearsed in, and Stiles almost gets off the elevator too soon out of habit. The whole building is as good as deserted, though, with _Dancing With The Stars_ over and the classes the Hales teach not starting up again for another few weeks.

There's music coming from Derek's studio. When Stiles pokes his head around the door cautiously, he's greeted by the sight of Derek dancing alone in the room. To a Ke$ha song. It shouldn't be as sexy as it is, but apparently everything Derek does is directly aimed at Stiles' dick.

The exposed parts of him are covered in a light sheen of sweat; he must have been dancing for a while. Every movement he makes is perfectly timed, perfectly placed to flow into the next position. Stiles knows he'll never be able to move like that in a million years.

Derek flips his shirt up just as Ke$ha implores everyone to take it off and Stiles can't contain the squawk that bursts out of his mouth. Derek's eyes flick up and their gaze meets in the mirror. He grabs a remote from the floor and pauses the music. "Can I help you?"

"I..." Stiles' throat is dry. He swallows, licks his lips, then tries again. "Hi."

"Hi," Derek replies. He picks up his towel, drying his face with it, and then squirts water into his mouth. "Laura isn't here."

"I know. I didn't come to see Laura." He takes a deep breath and steps into the studio, closing the door behind him. "I was wondering if you'd like to have a coffee with me. Or some casual sex, whichever you'd prefer." Stiles had been planning to build to that slowly. Too late now.

"What, there's no option for both?" Derek asks coolly. But Stiles is looking at his face and he sees the slight blush that rises on Derek's cheeks.

"Ah! Aha!" he says, pointing at Derek. "You're all like a real person!"

He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls. "I never pretended I wasn't."

"Coffee?" Stiles asks again. "My treat."

***

Stiles ends up getting food as well as coffee when he realises he hasn't eaten since the night before. Derek watches him wolf down a BLT (with extra B) with a knowing look on his face.

"Laura had you on her diet, didn't she?" he asks, sipping the last of his green tea latte. "Not that it doesn't help a little, but she really overstates the importance."

Stiles stares at him. "I didn't need to be on a special diet?"

"Look, what Laura does with her partners is her business," he says, holding up his hands innocently. "But Lydia didn't eat anything special and we won."

"Asshole," Stiles mutters. He doesn't know if he means Laura, Derek or the pair of them. "You probably deserved to win, though," he adds after a moment. "I mean, you guys were crazy good the whole way through. I thought you were dating for a while because you were just, like..." Stiles gestures, then finishes haltingly, "...really good together." _And hot_ , his brain puts in. _Really hot together_.

"We clicked," Derek says with a shrug. "It doesn't always happen. But it's not as if you and Laura were completely mismatched. You wouldn't have gotten to the final if you were."

He rolls his eyes theatrically, not sure how to take that. "Oh, you know. Hey, do you want another one of those?"

"I'm good, thanks," he says. Stiles' stomach sinks in disappointment. "But if you didn't have enough last night, we could head back to my apartment for something a little stronger."

"I... yes, I think I can handle something."

Stiles walks him back to his apartment. It's not far enough to make it worth driving. Derek lives in a nice neighbourhood, of course, because he's probably even richer than Stiles between his lucrative dance career and the family money that Stiles is sure he read about in an article once.

"Did it work out for you?" Derek asks at his door. He leans against it, hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket. Stiles would melt if he wore something like that in this weather.

"Huh?" Stiles replies.

"The show. No one goes on it because they love dancing. Are you getting job offers?"

"Oh, yeah. That day I ran into you at the store—my agent called me about a movie," he says, running his fingers through his hair. "I start filming on Monday."

"The princess thing, right?" Derek asks, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry, Stiles," he says quickly when Stiles makes a noise of protest. "I totally agree with you that you're pretty enough to be a princess. Grow out your hair a little more so there's enough to curl, and..." He touches Stiles' hair lightly, then skims his finger down Stiles' cheek. "Very pretty."

"I personally prefer jaw-droppingly handsome," Stiles says. He can't take his eyes off Derek's mouth. It's really close to his face. _Distractingly_ close, one might say.

"Okay," he says agreeably. "Jaw-droppingly handsome it is."

Stiles kisses him first, carefully to begin with, but when Derek responds to it with a swipe of his tongue across Stiles' lips, he's about ready to throw care out of the window. Derek tastes a little milky and bitter from his chai. Underneath that, he's just hot and open, and Stiles makes a faint wanting noise into his mouth as he clutches at the front of Derek's shirt.

"Let's take this inside," Derek says, breaking away from Stiles reluctantly.

Some other day, Stiles is sure he'll take the time to admire Derek's apartment, assuming this isn't just a one-off. Right now, he's too busy considering the mechanics of removing Derek's clothes with his teeth to care about furniture. The bed, though, the bed is _nice_ ; it's spacious and the mattress is just the right kind of firm when Derek presses him into it and sucks Stiles' bottom lip into his mouth.

Derek is a great kisser and Stiles loses track of how much time they spend on the bed kissing, first with Derek on top of him and then both lying on their sides. Stiles slips his knee between Derek's thighs and pushes up, eliciting a gratifying moan from him.

"I'm so into this," Stiles mumbles against Derek's mouth. He runs his hands up under Derek's t-shirt, stroking his fingertips along the dips between his abs. It's one thing to see Derek's body and quite another to touch it. "Oh my _god_ , your muscles have muscles; this shit is _bananas_."

Derek makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh and pushes his face against Stiles' shoulder. "Less talking, please."

"Fine, fine."

In silent agreement they both sit up and strip off their shirts before they kiss again, slower. Stiles tugs down Derek's sweatpants and his underwear, freeing his half-hard cock. He's less surprised by the size of it than the fact that it's uncut. The only uncut guy he's been with before was a one night stand when he was filming on location in France. He looks up at Derek, lips parting to ask the question.

"I was born in Europe," Derek says before he can. "It wasn't exactly a priority when we moved back to the States."

Stiles rubs at Derek's foreskin gently, sucking in a breath when Derek groans low in his throat and arches towards him, his face red and his dick stiffening in Stiles' hand.

"Good?" he asks breathlessly.

Derek responds by unbuckling Stiles' belt and opening the front of his jeans. His fingers are cool and a little callused around his cock and Stiles leans into them, closing his eyes. He hasn't done this kind of thing since he was a teenager and it's really good, better than he remembered. He's probably not doing the best job of jerking Derek off, but in his defence, he has a fantastic excuse.

After some more kissing and a lot more touching, they're both naked. Derek sprawls on the bed, thighs spread apart, his dick hard and flushed against his belly. A bead of precome leaves a glistening path down the side of it, and Stiles wants to lean down and trace it with his tongue.

"How do you wanna...?" Stiles asks haltingly. "I mean, can I...?"

"Full sentences, Stiles," he says, an amused grin spreading across his face. It's luminous enough to distract Stiles from his body momentarily.

"I want to fuck you," Stiles says. He's very proud of how steady he keeps his voice.

"So do it." Derek nods towards his nightstand and it's hard to mistake what that means.

Stiles scrabbles through the drawer and comes up with a condom and a brand new tube of lube, which makes him look askance at Derek. "Were you planning this?"

"Yeah, I'm a regular boy scout," Derek says drily.

He digs his heels into the mattress and raises his hips off the bed, sliding one of the pillows beneath his ass. Stiles admires the tension in his thighs before he settles between them, slicking up his fingers with the contents of the tube.

Derek lets out a long, low sigh when Stiles presses two fingers against his hole, circling around the muscle before he eases the tip of one inside, then slides it in to the knuckle with only a little resistance. Derek clenches around him with another wordless noise, and Stiles waits for him to relax before he starts working Derek open in short, graceless movements. Stiles' balls ache at the sight of Derek rocking down onto his hand.

"God, you are like... the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life," he blurts out, fingers still massaging Derek. "Please tell me you're nearly ready, because I'm going to fucking _die_."

"Yeah," Derek says, his face scrunching up. "Yeah, yeah."

Stiles withdraws his hand reluctantly, his cock jerking when Derek makes a needy sound at the loss. His fingers are too slippery to manage it, so Derek tears open the condom packet and rolls it onto Stiles' dick, the slow pressure of his fingertips smoothing it into place making Stiles' breath shuddery with anticipation.

The first push into Derek's body has Stiles moaning and pressing close, panting out of his open mouth. Derek's knees come up on either side of Stiles to grip his hips and his head tilts back, exposing the long line of his throat. Stiles presses his lips to the divot between Derek's collarbones and starts thrusting. Derek is hot and tight and all the clichés, and sometimes he moves a little too enthusiastically and Stiles slips out again, and they both laugh breathlessly and realign.

It's messy and it's _great_. Derek's dick lies trapped between their bellies, his precome smearing with each thrust. Stiles can't get his hand to it without making some space between their bodies, and he really doesn't want to do that. He hopes Derek will forgive him. The noises he's making—and the way his hands are playing over Stiles' back and his ass—he doesn't think it'll be a huge problem.

Stiles holds off for what he considers a respectable amount of time before the heat and pressure around his dick gets too much for him to take any more. "I'm gonna come," he mutters against Derek's throat, the roll of his hips erratic as his orgasm builds tension throughout every part of him. "Ah, fuck, Derek, this is totally unfair, you're too fucking hot for— _oh my god_."

It's one of his better orgasms, Stiles thinks hazily; the kind where everything bursts over you at once and you feel like none of your muscles will ever work again. Derek murmurs nonsense in his ear until Stiles feels capable of movement again. Stiles kisses the nearest part of Derek and rolls off him.

He brings Derek off with his hand and his mouth, using teasing licks and long strokes to take him over the edge. Derek shoots across himself in several thick, heavy spurts while his chest heaves, fisting the sheets in both hands. Just watching him, Stiles' cock twitches with renewed interest.

There are tissues on the nightstand and Stiles uses them to wipe Derek down before he wraps the condom in another and tosses everything into the trash. He lies down half on top of Derek, chin on his shoulder.

"I don't think we get full marks for that sloppy performance," he says.

"Well," Derek replies, his eyes lidded. "We can practice."

***

It's the second day in a row where Stiles wakes up alone in a strange bed. After a brief moment of panic that this is Derek's way of telling him that last night was a one-time thing, he decides he's being ridiculous. Derek wouldn't leave him alone in his apartment as a way of ditching him. Stiles could steal _anything_.

Not that he would, but the option is there. He pulls on his jeans and goes to find Derek.

He's in the kitchen, fully dressed, which seems a little unfair to Stiles even though he got to see all of Derek last night. "Hey," he says, his voice rough from sleep. "What are you doing?"

"Good morning," Derek says, holding up a paper bag. "I went out for pastries and there's coffee in the pot."

Stiles moans faintly, his stomach rumbling in appreciation of the gesture. "I was totally screwed over when I got Laura instead of you." He digs in the bag with one hand and wraps his other arm around Derek's neck, kissing him quickly. "And you're a better kisser than her, too. _Way_ better. Like, oh my god, just the b—"

"Shut up, Stiles," Derek says with an emphatic roll of his eyes, and then makes him.

Stiles is more than happy to shut up for someone who kisses like that.


End file.
